Coming soon to a beach near you

Every time we go to the shore, we take more stuff. Last year we added a cooler the size of New Mexico, as some of you may remember. This year it was a beach umbrella, which we bought to keep the sun off us but which actually came in handier to keep us from becoming pillars of sand in the sandstorm (see previous blog entry, if you haven't already and if you enjoy reading about other people's misfortunes). We also acquired two additional towels, which came in handy after our personal monsoon (again, see previous blog entry if, etc., etc.).

As you can imagine, we make quite a spectacle hauling all this stuff to the beach. We look like we are hauling gear for a family of seven but have forgotten the kids. The hotel staff takes one look at us and charges us for a few extra people in the room, figuring all that stuff can't belong just to the two of us.

It was inevitable that our stuff would soon outstrip our ability to carry it. As we were sitting on the beach, huffing and puffing from carrying everything, Joe watched another family -- who did have several kids -- stroll merrily down from the street, pulling a beach stroller that was loaded down with all their gear. It had large rubber wheels and netting sides that kept everything snugly in place. They had even more stuff than we did, and the man was hauling it effortlessly. I saw immediately that Envy was setting in in Joe.

"THAT'S what we need!" he exclaimed. "We gotta get one of those. Just think of everything else we could bring!"

The only thing we hadn't brought down was the car, and I didn't see how we would need that on the beach. But I knew there would be no dissuading him.

After dinner that night we were strolling down the boardwalk when Joe suddenly stopped and stared at a display outside a store. I tried to distract him, tried to tempt him with ice cream just a little farther up, but he ignored me. On display was a beach stroller somewhat like we had seen the man pulling earlier. Joe moved toward it with astonishing speed, as if he was afraid someone else would get to it before he did.

There was no price on it. It looked easy to maneuver, although one side of it had only a bungee cord-like thing to strap in your stuff. It didn't seem all that secure. "Let's see if they have any others inside," he said.

In the back of the store we hit pay dirt. There, in shining glory, was "Wonder Wheels," the Grand Marquis of beach strollers, the answer to all our hauling needs. It came in five colors, and it had two big pouches secured by netting, and four wheels -- two for pulling in the sand, four for pushing on the street. "Look!" I squealed. "It has cup holders!" (As an aside, our great-niece, recently turned 2, received a top-of-the-line wagon for her birthday. My sister expressed some disgust at the fact that the wagon had four cup holders, and her own car had zero.)

Our eyes glazed over. You'd have thought we were looking at a brand-new sports car. In fact, we would have had to buy a new car to even fit the Wonder Wheels in it.

But something wasn't quite right. It wasn't, after all, the stroller for us. Maybe it had something to do with the $225 price tag on it. Surely the tag had been switched? Not that there was anything else in the store that looked like it should be that expensive, either. The clerk assured us that the price was correct.

We left the store, sadly, our longing glances lingering on the Wonder Wheels. "A pack mule would be cheaper," I muttered.

Joe's eyes lit up again. "Hey, now that's an idea..."